I had a good old look through my two giant bookshelves the other day, since finishing Sarah Waters' rather brilliant 'Fingersmith' (she has now been firmly elevated into my 'All-Time Top Three' novelists), trying to decide what I'm going to read next. I stockpile books like a magpie does stolen jewellery, ending up with far more than I'll probably ever be able to read during my limited lifetime, but so that there is real choice reflected on the shelves every time I care to browse. I am somebody for whom choice, in pretty much every aspect of life, is an absolute necessity!
In the end I settled on Jonathan Franzen's 'The Corrections', just in case you're interested, and it's going well; again, just in case you're interested. It's shaping up to be an epic read, and it's a depthful and superbly written one, but there's something about Jonathan Franzen's writing that feels a bit too intelligent for the likes of me sometimes, especially when he spirals off into political agenda. It's as though there are a sheaf of obvious 'points' he has deftly stitched between the lines of his writing that I'm just not capable of actually getting. The characterisation and family saga are, however, so insightful and finely-tuned that the whole thing, like 'Freedom' before it, makes me want to weep at just how wonderful a writer Mr. Franzen is and how I will probably never write anything half as good.
As I say, just in case you're interested... (!)
But as I conducted my journey through the bookshelves I couldn't help noticing an array of books I not only hadn't read, but also that I never actually intend to read. How did these books come to be in my possession, you may ask? Well, it's because they have been lent to me over the years by well-meaning people; friends and family members who have passed them on to me with an effusive "you'll love this!"
I have trouble with things, not just books, but things in general, that other people effuse over and then assume I will do the same. It's an annoying, snobby and childish trait of mine to rebel against other people's tastes and develop my own (dammit!). Yet I will, hypocritically, effuse as much as anybody else over something I've loved. That's why people lend books in the first place. I'm willing to bet that most people have books hanging around the house that have been lent by other people, taken out of politeness, in the full knowledge that they will never be read. These books are also, let's face it, never actually likely to be returned to their original owners.
One such book is Ben Elton's 'Popcorn', lent to me by an ex-boyfriend who went on about it so much that he effectively turned me straight off actually reading the book. I lent him a copy of Christopher Brookmyre's 'One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night' in return. We split up quite soon after that, and the books went forever unreturned (though I do think he got the better end of the deal!).
Lending people my beloved Brookmyres has received a bit of a mixed response, on the whole. I converted one friend, but it must be said that I've had more misses than hits with his books. Lending 'A Big Boy Did It and Ran Away' to a devoutly pious Christian friend of mine was always going to end in disaster (the book features copious amounts of the 'c' word on the first few pages; something I didn't think about when I lent it out and I almost had it thrown back at me with disgust the next day!). I also lent a copy of 'Quite Ugly One Morning' to a workmate who openly considered his level of intelligence to be a cut above mine (which is fair enough; I'd wager most people's are!) He dropped it gingerly onto my desk the following day, saying he'd found the language "a bit too basic" for his tastes. After that I kept my Brookmyres to myself (as it were!)
These days I rarely lend people books unless it's actually been mentioned. But in the meantime I apologise to the lenders of various "you'll love this!" tomes resting, dust-covered and reproachful on my shelves...you'll get them back one day, I promise!
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